


yesterday and tomorrow

by wheelspokes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Excessive use of Inarizaki's banner, Gen, Miya Atsumu-centric, Post 2013 Nationals, slight fire imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26299564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheelspokes/pseuds/wheelspokes
Summary: There is only Miya Atsumu, best high school setter and the new captain of the powerhouse Inarizaki Volleyball Club.In which Atsumu looks at the jersey in his hands and realizes he needs to change.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 68





	yesterday and tomorrow

In his second year of high school, Atsumu stands behind Kita as his captain receives the runner-up award on behalf of Inarizaki at Fall Interhigh. Kita steps forward with dignity and grace, and all Atsumu can do is stare at the back of his captain and vow they’ll pummel the Tokyo kids in January to claim first place. 

In the end, there aren’t any awards at Spring Interhigh, just an undeserved round of applause as a consolation prize, tears shed in the stairwell of the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium, and a declaration from Atsumu and Osamu to the captain who brought them there. 

Kita led their team efficiently. He hadn’t been a starting player, but that meant nothing. He held the power to change the flow of any game with a single substitution, a few well-placed glares, and an average of 15 words spoken to everyone standing on the court. 

Atsumu is not Kita. 

This is obvious. Atsumu has never, ever thought he’s even remotely similar to Mister No Gaps Kita Shinsuke. 

He’s self aware enough to know he’s a shitty person. He’s only diligent when it comes to volleyball. The only routines he has in his life are the self-setting drills he practices right before bed and how he never fails to steal pudding cups from Osamu when he’s just bought a new pack. His tests come back with angry red checks slashed across every problem. The gods are probably watching him and eagerly waiting to banish him to the deepest depths of hell. 

Atsumu is not Kita, and yet he’s the one who holds a black jersey emblazoned with the number one. 

Osamu snickers at how far his jaw drops when their coach names him as Inarizaki Volleyball Club’s new captain. Ginjima hurriedly flashes Atsumu a wide smile that somehow comes off as irritating instead of reassuring. Suna looks Atsumu directly in the eyes and gags when he receives the title of vice captain. Atsumu demands silence before he serves, but the overwhelming lack of noise in their usually chaotic gym right now only slams Atsumu’s heart against his ribcage. 

Atsumu is nothing like Kita, and yet he is chosen to lead their team into battle the following season. 

A small vindictive part of him whispers this is exactly why Atsumu is handed the heavy mantle of captaincy. It doesn’t matter if Kita wore the cloak when they placed second in the nation during Fall Interhigh; Kita had been their captain when Inarizaki, the heavy favorite to sweep Itachiyama’s snobby city kids off their feet and win the whole damn Spring Interhigh, was disqualified in the first match they played. 

Except it hadn’t been Kita’s fault at all. 

A second part of him reminds Atsumu it was his fault, his toss, his miscalculation, his fucking _recklessness_ that cost Inarizaki the chance to hold the world in its hands. Itachiyama was nowhere in the equation; the team from Miyagi wasn’t even from the city. 

“I don’t think you guys were wrong to do that last quick attack,” Kita says after they lose against Karasuno.

 _But I was wrong_ , Atsumu wants to tell him. _We lost because of me_. 

The words are stuck in his throat. They don’t make it out. It only gets harder to talk when Kita admits he wants to keep playing with them.

Kita gives the team a devastatingly beautiful smile. Atsumu focuses on his and Osamu’s promise to make Kita proud. If he doesn’t, that smile will cut through him until he’s crying alongside his teammates. Aran — kind, overworked, too good for Atsumu and Osamu’s bullshit — is already sobbing. Atsumu’s heart isn’t the only one Kita broke with his confession. 

Inarizaki is a powerhouse school. Atsumu is the best high school setter. His ego is the largest in all of Japan, and this is what ends up mattering more than the jersey he wears and the awards sitting on his bookshelf. The best high school setter from a powerhouse school originally favored to win Interhigh causes his team to lose in their first round. 

These are the thoughts that torment him and make sleep impossible. 

Everyone else conks out on the train ride back home to Hyogo, exhaustion overtaking them after playing one game and watching two more. Atsumu cannot fall asleep even when Gin starts using his shoulder as a pillow. He’s too preoccupied with casting bricks and rebuilding his crumbling castle walls until the Immovable Hirugami would be jealous of their sturdiness. 

Atsumu’s impulsiveness cost them a game; he’ll be damned if that happens again. Inarizaki’s cheer team may be demonic, but their school’s hellish rumor mill gifts them wings and halos of light in comparison. He still remembers how a classmate had ridiculed Osamu when he missed the Hyogo Prefectural Qualifiers because of a cold. 

Osamu is the nicer twin. Osamu is the better twin. Osamu is a functioning human being. No one lets Atsumu forget this, but it’s okay because Atsumu has volleyball. Even when the entire school whispers about a powerhouse school and the best high school setter getting knocked out by some no-name team, Atsumu grits his teeth, reinforces his walls, and cradles volleyball to his chest. 

Inarizaki focuses on their mistakes a lot for a school that gifts its volleyball team with a banner that says _Who needs memories_. Kita, who never really liked that banner anyways, can probably spot the irony there. 

The third explanation Atsumu has for being the recipient of the jersey with the number one on the front is the most plausible. 

It comes down to this: who else could it be?

Atsumu is not the only one who loves volleyball. No one joins a team like Inarizaki's without having ever loved volleyball. 

But there is only one person willing to burn himself to ashes if it means staying on the court for one more second. There is only one person who feasts on every victory, a monster who licks his fingers to savor every last crumb of the banquet before him. There is only one person whose name means hunger, one person who has an endless appetite for the sport in question.

There is only Miya Atsumu, best high school setter and the new captain of the powerhouse Inarizaki Volleyball Club.

He is not Kita. Kita was captain material even before the players a year above him retired. Atsumu, already bearing the burden of being the best high school setter, must reforge himself for the role. 

Osamu never fails to remind Atsumu of his giant head, but for the first time in his life, Atsumu isn’t sure if he can handle the weight of two crowns. 

His reality is this: at the end of their second year, Osamu tells Atsumu he won’t play volleyball after graduating from high school. Karasuno ripped Atsumu's pride away over the course of five sets; Osamu lights a match and doesn’t even need gasoline to burn it all to cinders. 

Once upon a time, Atsumu could depend on two things in the world. Now, Atsumu wonders if he still has even one of those constants left.

Atsumu has never been mature, has never been the better person. Atsumu has also never thought Osamu would leave his side or that he could lose to an unknown team in the first round of Nationals. 

Three days after he receives his new jersey, Coach Kurosu asks him to stay after practice. 

Osamu raises an eyebrow, begins the walk home without him, and leaves Atsumu alone with volleyball once more. The white rectangle on his jersey that signifies his command burns against his skin as Atsumu treks across the wide expanse of the court to where his coach is waiting with a speech about teamwork, courage, and growth. 

“Stop clinging onto a loss from a few months ago. It’s not your fault and that I should have made better calls; no one is pinning the blame on you but yourself,” his coach says. “I need you to reflect on what you could have done better, and then move on. Unless you’re learning from the game against Karasuno and growing, the outcome of that match doesn’t matter.”

Maybe Atsumu would be convinced if he didn’t hear their principal threatening to dock Coach Kurosu’s salary if Inarizaki suffers another defeat in their first game at another tournament. He must be frowning because his coach ruffles his hair, patting his hand against his pants to wipe off the hair gel on his fingers in a manner that isn’t inconspicuous at all. 

“Don’t scoff at my words Atsumu. Inarizaki rises to every challenge given to us, and you’re the captain because everyone on this team knows you’re up to the task. You’re wearing that jersey because this team trusts you. Every single person, from the new recruits to last season's third years, knows it has to be you. But you’re not going to succeed if you don’t even start. 

“The person you were yesterday is not the person you are today. Atsumu, we are never promised a win. We’re never promised anything. But that only means we have to try even harder today.”

Atsumu knows this. Coach Kurosu says this same speech before every game. He stares at a banner with this philosophy printed on it during volleyball matches. He learns the excruciating truth behind these words the hard way, from a loss against Tobio and Shouyou, from Osamu informing Atsumu that the timer of their partnership has been ticking away for far longer than he once thought.

“I’ll work on it.” His words don’t sound convincing, not even to himself. His coach lets him go with a shake of his head. Atsumu runs across the gym to head to the locker room so he can yank his jersey off and put an end to the persistent itch of his captain's mark. 

Coach Kurosu must have said something to Aran because Atsumu’s phone lights up with a text message from him on his way home. Maybe it’s just Aran’s Miya sense going off as if Aran is some twisted version of Spiderman who knows when Atsumu and Osamu are up to something.

 _Don’t be too childish now that you’re the captain. Good luck with the team. I have faith in you._

Atsumu snorts when he reads it, tucking his phone into his pocket and concentrating all of his frustration into the tip of his toe so he can kick the rock he just spotted across the street. The rock is sent flying, leaving Atsumu with emptiness ringing through his body and hollow satisfaction. 

Ever since they met, Aran has always called Atsumu childish. Atsumu has always laughed him off. Why should it matter if people hate him? Hatred doesn’t matter as long as they can hit his perfect tosses and score. Hatred doesn’t matter when Atsumu can simply turn his head and find new admirers, more accolades. 

Three days ago when he accepted the captain’s jersey, Atsumu was no longer laughing. Atsumu looked at Osamu, Gin, Suna, the whole damn team he needed to lead, and realized he needed to change. 

But Atsumu has already started what should have been impossible: he has been changing. 

He’s always liked denying expectations anyways. There are pockets of the nation, of the entire world, who have not yet heard of Miya Atsumu. Atsumu will change this after he changes himself.

A team does not stay the same for eternity. Pieces are removed and new cogs are installed in their place. People, teammates, and friends flow in and out of his life and all Atsumu can do is forge on ahead. The keyholders of Atsumu’s memories disappear before he has the chance to admit he doesn’t want to lose them. 

Atsumu arrives early to practice the next day and sits in the storage closet, Inarizaki Volleyball Club’s banner stretched out in front of him. 

_Who needs memories._

_Who needs memories._

_Who needs memories._

He says these words out loud, chanting them until the white calligraphy sears itself against the backs of his eyelids. The more he repeats their motto, the more Atsumu starts to believe it.

Lately, when Atsumu drifts to sleep, he sees a figure soaring, wings sprouting out of his shoulder blades and feathers plummeting to the ground along with the ball. He sees outstretched palms denying him freedom and a bittersweet smile promising salvation. The painful roar of deafening silence is replaced by a declaration. 

Atsumu closes his eyes now and doesn’t see the dreams that have haunted him ever since Nationals. He’s grinning when he pulls himself out of his stupor, the black cloth under his knees anchoring him to the present. 

The person Atsumu was a year ago, a month ago, a day ago is not the person he is now. 

Atsumu stands up, folds the banner, and gently places it back into the corner of the closet. He returns to the clubroom to go greet the teammates that have arrived in hopes of making them set up the net. A small galaxy of confidence begins to swirl to life in his chest as he leads practice. 

The team changes alongside him; perhaps for once his ego isn’t lying when he says he’s the one who changes the team. Seven promising first years and a manager join the team. Second years and third years get off the bench, their newfound strength emphasized by Atsumu’s careful sets. Every player bares their fangs, sharpening their skills along with their claws. Foxes may not be deadly, but lethal is the only word that can describe this new Inarizaki. 

Atsumu is not achieving what Kita couldn’t. Instead, Atsumu is finishing what Kita, the captain before him, and every single person who has worn this jersey started. Whenever Atsumu slips jersey number one on now, the captain’s marking warms his skin and sets his heart ablaze with pride, his stardust confidence settling in his bones. 

Atsumu leads his team to second place in the Fall Interhigh and commands the siege that topples Karasuno and Itachiyama at Spring Interhigh. 

His former seniors cheer the loudest when Osamu slams the ball into a corner of the court that not even Komori can reach in time. The whistle blows, the scorecards are flipped to reflect 29-27 in Inarizaki’s favor, the demon cheer team’s shrieks echo like angels standing at the gates of Heaven, and Atsumu is shouting as he tackles his brother into a hug. 

“This is because of you,” Atsumu tells Kita, after he’s cried into Osamu’s shoulder with Suna and Gin’s arms wrapped around them, after he’s shaken Sakusa’s hand, after recruiters gave him packets advertising their teams, after Miya Atsumu — captain of the Inarizaki Volleyball Club and Japan’s best high school setter — led his team to the top step of the podium. 

Next to him, Aran is groaning at a bad joke Osamu made, the grin on his face suggesting he misses Atsumu and Osamu just as much as they miss him. Oomimi and Akagi are asking Kosaku and Coach Kurosu about their dinner plans, the four of them discussing what dessert their coach should buy the newly crowned victors. Suna and Gin are checking in with their underclassman, Gin holding Suna’s phone hostage as they make sure their teammates have all of their belongings. 

Kita just smiles. This time, Atsumu sees the brilliance behind his smile. Kita really never blamed him. “No Atsumu. _You_ brought them here. Congratulations.”

For a moment, Atsumu understands why his former captain doesn’t like their banner. From the way his shoes squeak on polished hardwood to the strain of bending as low as he can to set the ball to Osamu with all ten of his fingers to the pride ebbing through his soul, Atsumu wants to cherish every single detail of this memory. 

...

His team gives him a gift when he retires from the Inarizaki Volleyball Club. 

Atsumu doesn’t have his hopes up after a first year dramatically unveils a collage of pictures of Suna on his phone as a present to their vice captain. Ginjima, for all of the hard work he put into keeping Atsumu and Osamu in line, is presented with a framed certificate that proudly states _I survived the Miya twins!_ and two finger puppets with heads of gold and silver hair. Osamu, the easiest person to shop for, is already eating his gift of assorted chocolate and candy bars. Kosaku is staring quizzically at the potted fern their manager handed him.

It’s Riseki who steps forward with a small gift bag. Riseki isn’t burdened by self-doubt anymore, and he carries his head high with all of his hard-won confidence. His wicked serves won them almost as many points as Atsumu’s serves had during Nationals. He’ll be a good captain next year.

“Thank you for the memories,” he says.

He hands the gift bag to Atsumu. Their fingertips lightly brush together as if they’re recognizing each other as teammates and soon-to-be rivals. 

Atsumu digs around the bag, jostling aside the tissue paper inserted inside. His fingers hook around something pliant and he slowly pulls out a strip of cloth roughly the size of a hand towel. The black fabric is surprisingly coarse. Atsumu understands what it is when it unfolds itself to reveal beautiful white calligraphy.

His team howls at his stunned expression. Suna snaps a picture for documentation, only driving the point of his collage home. Kosaku tips his head back to laugh and almost slams his plant into a second year’s face. Osamu chokes on his chocolate because he’s laughing too hard, and Gin smacks his back in an attempt to save him that only makes him cough harder. 

Atsumu beams and cackles along with them. When he cradles his gift in his palms, he realizes this must be what the weight of the world feels like in his hands. It’s even better than everything he once dreamed of.

...

The miniature banner is the first thing Atsumu hangs up in his new apartment in Osaka. He doesn’t need things like memories, but he’s learned it’s not wrong to want them. 

Atsumu looks at the white calligraphy and repeats its message three times to himself. Time has eroded the branding on the backs of his eyes, but those words have been carved into his heart a long time ago. 

He remembers the looming wall of Tobio and Shouyou’s block, Kita’s smile, kneeling beside their banner inside a cramped storage room, losses stacking up one after the other. He remembers standing in the stairwell of the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium and watching his teammates wave around a trophy as golden as his hair, the approving thumbs up his coach gave him, the warmth of his teammates’ arms around him. 

Miya Atsumu, second string setter for the MSBY Black Jackals, is not done changing yet. He doesn’t think he ever will be, not until he’s a household name and there’s an Olympic gold medal around his neck. He’s going to take this whole goddamn world by storm, and his path to eternal glory starts here.

Atsumu steps out of his apartment and walks into the light of what tomorrow has to offer. 

**Author's Note:**

> While the "Who needs memories" banner eventually becomes something Atsumu truly believes in, I think he'd compare himself to Kita a lot when he first becomes Inarizaki's captain before he stops looking at the past. This was pretty self-indulgent and a little jumbled, but as soon as I first started writing this, I wanted to explore Atsumu's character more.
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can find me on twitter as @myo_caron


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